


Ornament

by WearMyFace



Category: MTMTE - Fandom, Transformers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:51:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1227019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WearMyFace/pseuds/WearMyFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rung was an Ornament under the Functionists. But what exactly does that entail? Random drabbles not in any particular order about our favorite psychotherapist'childhood. Angsty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Child's Play

**Author's Note:**

> This is very creepy. Mentions of abuse. Contains force-feeding. If you are easily triggered, move on. Rated SFW, but only because it contains no sex or gore/violence.

A large finger nudged behind his knees, forcing him to walk over to a small table and chair perfectly sized for him.  
Must've cost a lot of credits, Rung thought. To have something made for someone his size.  
He sat down when directed and stayed obediently when the mech wandered off somewhere in the room. He would've turned his head to look, but he was an Ornament. A doll, a mech's plaything. He supposed it could've been worse. He could've been labeled a pleasure bot or disposable class. But sometimes he wished he had been. At least then he wouldn't have been alone.  
Mechs were only allowed to socialize with their own class. And as the only one in his, he was alone. Except for the Functionists. Rung fought back a shudder. At least this mech seemed to be content with merely playing with him. Others would bend him to see how far he could go. One particular mech that he hated with a burning passion had sat on him. Repeatedly. The mech in question was a tank.  
A soft click and Rung was brought back to the present. Sitting on the table, there was a shot glass and a cube of Energon. He shut his eyes and tried not to cry. He really hated it when they did this. They always pushed it against his face too hard so it hurt and spilled it everywhere. Then they had to clean him off, with too-large fingers shoved into spaces they didn't fit and wires pinched and a deep sense of shame.  
He tried to control his breathing. Dolls didn't cry. Inhale as evenly as he could (and he wouldn't think about how his vents were ragged because that made it worse) and blow it out in one smooth exhale. And again. And again. And he tried to ignore the splash of too much fuel into a very little cup. And the cold, sticky puddle forming under his arms. And the way his eyes prickled.  
In and out. Force the emotions into a little box, he told himself. We can get them later. Muttered cursing, and the feel of a scratchy rag around his arms sopping up the spill. Rung shut it out as best he could and breathed. Too soon, all too soon, he heard the wet splat of the rag being set up on the counter to be dealt with later. And the quiet clink of metal fingers picking up a cup. He opened his eyes (they always liked him with his eyes open. Probably because otherwise he looked like he was sleeping) and waited.  
The rim of the cup nudged his lips and kept pushing. It squished his mouth against his teeth and he tried not to make a face or any noise. Dolls were silent and unmoving unless they were moved. Energon splashed over the rim and dribbled down his face.  
The cup tipped and he opened his mouth and tried not to choke on the unending flood. He swallowed again and again, (the only way to get through it) and tried to ignore the spots of black dancing in the edge of his vision. Finally, as his head spun and the blackness threatened to overtake him, the cup lifted and he held his breath even longer until he saw the mech leave the room.  
Instantly, Rung animated, limbs flailing as he coughed and spluttered, simultaneously trying to breathe and clear out his vents. He brought his hands up to his face and wiped off the drips. His coughing fit faded and was replaced by hysterical sobs. He pushed his face into his arms, trying to muffle his gasps. How long he sat there, face pushed into the table and tears streaming down his face, he didn't know. But eventually, he felt footsteps thudding through the floor and he hastily wiped off his face. It smeared everything around, but he didn't have the time or materials to do better.  
The mech returned and picked him up. He walked to the door, Rung dangling limply from his grasp. Rung tried not to tense up (dolls had no emotions and therefore didn't tense or cringe or anything) but it was hard when you were swinging from someone's loose fist next to their thigh. That was a long way down.  
It seemed he was going home, that was the Functionist he lived with outside, and Rung felt oddly relieved. At least he knew what would happen at that house. As he was passed from fist to fist, he pasted a smile on his face. Dolls should always smile so they look inviting and ready to be played with.


	2. Sad Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was feeling very sad and scared, so I wrote this. Rung is my punching bag. Sorry, dude. Rated SFW.

Rung lay curled up in a ball on his bed, crying. His vents gasped and shuddered, and great heaving sobs racked his frame. His vocalizer spat out frantic keening noises and he curled his fists into his blanket. Tears streamed down his face and were wicked away by the cloth up against his face.   
He thrust the wet blanket away from his face, and kicked his pillow off the bed. He grabbed a bag of Rust Sticks. Maybe a snack would help him to feel better. He sat on his bed with his knees up to his chest, shoving handfuls of Rust Sticks into his mouth. He didn't care that normally he would eat them one by one, slowly sucking off the nickel coating. Or about the rust flakes covering his bed. Or the undignified tears pouring down his face. He just needed the sweet metallic tang to possibly help soothe his aching Spark.   
3 packets later, and though he had stopped crying, Rung was beginning to think he needed a new plan. He was still sad, and about to start crying again any second. He crumpled up the empty packages and threw them on the floor next to his pillow. He stood and got a cube of Energon, rubbing his temples. Great, just great. Processor ache. He sipped slowly, as his vents were still shaky. When the cube was empty, he threw it on his now-messy floor and curled up in a ball, crying again. As he lay amidst his rubbish, he could feel all the sadness and sorrow he'd tried to shove down come boiling back up.   
Why was he such a burnout? Why couldn't he do anything right? His altmode was pathetic and freakish, he was stupid and ugly, and everything he owned was junk. Dross. A waste of materials. He was a waste of space. No one liked him.   
He rolled over onto his front, legs curling underneath him and that was when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. He reached under his bed, and huffed angrily as he was forced out of his position and flush against the bed with his arm underneath. He groped blindly, becoming more and more torqued off as he failed to reach it. Finally, his fingers brushed a tiny metal shape and he shoved himself as close to the edge of the bed as he could possibly get. His fingers closed around it and he drew it out and stared. Ark 1, one of the first ships he'd gotten. He brushed some of the dust off it and pulled it close to his chest and cried.


End file.
